Sunday, March 31, 2013

Big Dog

Hi. I am the Big Dog in the house. I make the rules. When I speak the lesser dogs listen.

Usually.

But sometimes...

...okay, here's the story:

Scene A-1:

Handsome, his mother and her cousin are watching television. There is a sound from outside — a dog barks, a car door slams, a squirrel passes wind, whatever — and the dogs go ballistic, barking, barking, barking. The three people in the room tell them to be quiet. Order them to shut-up. The dogs ignore them for while as they yell, but eventually two of the dogs — the brothers — quiet down. Evie, however, a Papillon who is large of eye, fuzzy of ear and scarce of tooth, continues to ignore them. She is nearly eighty in dog years, and if she wants to bark then by God she’s going to bark and there’s not a damn thing some ungainly whipper-snapper of human can do about it. They simply continue watching television while she barks like a small furry machine, one arf per second for as long as it takes her to lose interest in the project: sometimes a half-hour or more. Evie can be a remarkably patient dog at times.

Scene A-2:

I am watching television, or more likely watching NetFlix on my latptop. Outside a loud truck goes by, or a car door slams, or we get another visit from that notoriously flatulent tree-rodent. Or, possibly, one of the dogs simply thinks they hear something. Whatever. The dogs all go ballistic, barking, barking, barking. I belt out one syllable — not yelling at the top of my lungs, mind you, just making certain I’m loud enough go be heard.

“Hey!”

The brothers fall silent. Occasionally there is a little grumbling, a little under-the-breath “wuff-wuff”ing, and I say it again. Not shouting, just saying the word.

“Hey.”

Now there is silence but for Evie, who is, of course, still making her version of ‘you can’t tell me what to do’ noise, but she sounds a little tentative about it. I hold up a hand, patting the air between us as I look her in the eye and say (not shout) two more words.

“Evie. Enough.”

Three quiet dogs now go about their business as I go back to watching whatever it is I was watching.

Conclusion A:

I am the Big Dog, and they recognize my authority without me having to yell about it.

Scene B-1:

It’s feeding time. Whoever is feeding the pack stands in the kitchen, three metal dog bowls arranged on the counter before them. They are opening the little dog food tins just as fast as they can, dumping them into the bowls and roughly breaking the meaty blocks apart with a fork before depositing the bowls on the floor. They are working as fast as they can because around them the pack is, quite loudly, losing its tiny little mind. There is barking. There is howling. There is, quite honestly, what sounds like the death scene in an opera going on, all reverberating within the confines of one small kitchen. From some there is that sweet little move where they rear up and claw at a shin with their forepaws; from one there is the Jump, that freakish ability some small dogs exhibit to leap like tiny fanged deer, occasionally used to bounce straight up into the air, attaining an altitude many times their own height. While two of the dogs sing and dance about the feet of the feeder, this one is doing the yowling hairy pogo. All this is going on despite the fact that every canine in the room has been told, repeatedly and at extreme volume, to shut the hell up. They have been spoken to, shouted at, had a finger shaken in their general direction (I won’t tell you which finger!) and eventually threatened with one of the food cans — well, not actually the can itself, rather with the intended placement of it. This raucous scene continues until the food bowls hit the floor and stops not one moment before.

Scene B-2:

It’s feeding time. I’m feeding the pack. They are sitting in a silent semi-circle around me, watching intently as I open the cans and fill the bowls, using a fork to roughly break up the moist meaty cubes that thack into the dishes when I upend the cans. I never yelled. I never shouted. I never even told them to be quiet. I set the bowls out on the counter and they simply arranged themselves about me. I told them they were good, and they stayed that way. The bowls hit the floor amid zero squabbling and snarling, and I wipe down the counter as they snarf down the Alpo.

Conclusion B:

I am the Big Dog, and they recognize my authority without me having to yell about it.

Scene C-1:

Handsome is in the TV room, either watching NetFlix or playing on his computer or the PlayStation. The room is a mess: an empty cup; an empty dish; food wrappers and clothes scattered about the floor and furniture. His mother tells him to stop what he’s doing and please clean the room. He says “Okay.”

An hour later she tells him again.

An hour later she tells him again.

Less than an hour later, voices are raised, but eventually the room is cleaned.

Sort of.

Scene C-2:

Handsome is in the TV room, either watching NetFlix or playing on his computer or the PlayStation. The room is a mess: an empty cup; an empty dish; food wrappers and clothes scattered about the floor and furniture. I tell him to stop what he’s doing and please clean the room. He says “Okay.”

An hour later I tell him again.

An hour later I tell him again.

Less than an hour later my voice is raised. Really raised. Raised to the point of losing my mind and on the verge of offering up some 1950’s style “this is going to hurt me more than it’s going to hurt you” motivation. Eventually the room is cleaned.